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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26163847">eyes full of stars</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilia/pseuds/ilia'>ilia</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Voltron: Legendary Defender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU where they lived, Body Horror, Death, Disability, F/M, Lotor Week 2020, Vague mentions of sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 02:41:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,979</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26163847</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilia/pseuds/ilia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In the middle of sleeping hours, Emperor Lotor awakens with a yearning for the stars.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Allura/Lotor (Voltron)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>eyes full of stars</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for Lotor Week 2020, prompt 6: Other Realities</p><p>In which Lotor and Allura live, despite the consequences.</p><p>Special thanks to my beloved Rory for her ceaseless encouragement.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><div>
  <p>In the middle of sleeping hours, Lotor awakens with a yearning for the stars.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>It is a dream that does it, he speculates—one of those nauseating, good-for-nothing, <em>loathsome</em> nightmares that leaves his wasted body jittery and thrashing until he has awakened fully. A dream that might as well be a memory: tethered cords of Quintessence spun of his own flesh, binding him to the seat of his vessel. The desperation with which Lotor tries to move, and the force with which he is restrained.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Oh, and he’s had this one before. Since his rescue from the maw of the vessel that haunts him—since he was literally cut free from within and hauled as though a sack of provisions back to his own realm—he’s had it many times. Enough to leave the Lord wondering as he awakens which circumstance truly is the work of his imagination after all.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>But in this world, Lotor has awakened. Awakened aching, moaning. With a restlessness in his knees and chest full of the urge to see the galaxies. And so he goes.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He drags his body from the luxurious swathe of silken bedsheets now stained by his own sweat. He gathers his mane of long, silver hair into a smoothness befitting an Emperor. It sticks to Lotor’s fingers as he pulls it from his face; some pearlescent strands come away in his hands. But he loses fewer hairs each day as the new ones come in. That thought alone Lotor grips onto tightly; a sign that his body knows the beginnings of recovery.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>That it won’t give out underneath him as he has so feared.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>A hand wraps about his wrist as he prepares to stand, and Lotor pauses. Sharp yellow eyes cast across the terrain of bedclothes beyond.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The woman who bids him wait is easily the finest to grace his bed. Her eyes glimmer blue in the darkness of the vessel’s mandated resting hours. Her full mouth, drawn in a pout. Her hair, a voluminous ecosystem of its own. His Allura.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Another nightmare?” She asks him, in that quiet way that tells him she is trying for a steadying facade. And still his teeth grit all the same. Lotor does not need to be coddled.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I can’t imagine,” he begins, curt. “Why that should be any burden upon your shoulders.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Lotor, you awaken in my bed, trembling and moaning.” Beneath the irate way being freshly awakened has her tone grinding through those fine white teeth, she sounds endeared. <em>A truly hopeless man, you</em>. “Is that not enough to denominate this my trouble, too?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“It’s none of your concern,” Lotor dismisses, and although it is not necessarily true it is a lie borne out of desired convenience to her, and he allows it slide without guilt. Rather than submit to further interrogation he stands, entrusting legs still strengthening with muscles once atrophied in full not to let him fall.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>They hold him well enough.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He drags on clothing to combat the chill of space and takes to the hallways beyond, gaze loitering and indulgent but thoughts inherently disinterested in the sweeping purple and black ceilings of his vessel, nor in the decor that peppers the walls. A ship well suited for an Emperor it might be, as that was how it was sold to him —“Rather befitting a King,” the Galra architect had told him with eyes gleaming with excitement and pride, and how <em>easily</em> Lotor had agreed to make it just so—but even the lavish furnishings dripping in opulence do little to quell Lotor’s unrest. Rather, he positively stumbles through the hallways with a hand on the wall to compensate for the shameful cane his broken-down body still needs in its lesser days.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>(What is a fine ship to a broken man? There are times Lotor believes he should have been left for eternity in that damned Field.)</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>To be frank, he had paid no mind to the artistic structure of the thing, little to the colors or the glinting metallics worked into the walls sourced from the most highly desired far-away star systems. He’s never had care for such things personally. Lotor’s thoughts to opulence are mere pestilent reminders that it instills fear in others. And that—fear—is a weapon he is glad enough to use.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>His steps quicken, and he calls the elevator to take him a floor up. No, why he personally prefers this vessel is the upper observation deck.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>It takes his breath away even now; three hundred and sixty degrees of the clearest and most battle-resilient glass known to the Galran species. And from that glass, the universes explode around him in a vicious melody of stars that sets his blood resonating through his frail, crippled body.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He stumbles forward. Clawed fingers arrange the curtain of argent hair atop his head. Lotor’s tongue wets his lower lip in irritation at the dragging of his feet.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He approaches until he is within a breath of the glass. Until the stars are pratically within reach.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Oh, but the titillating thrill of the universe. He has known her well. Since he was a boy all too long ago, a boy with yearnings too large for a body that was too little and too delicate even then. The way he would hunger for the thrill of planets undiscovered; civilizations unknown; languages unlearned that at first feel new and clunky and impotent upon even his own articulate tongue. The way his delicate little fingers would reach out for the specs of light amongst the harrowing void of space.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>—The smell of the Witch; her putrid, ripe odor. The grip of her hands upon his shoulders. “He reaches for them, my Lord,” she says in a rattling breath, and stoops. Lotor hurries to avoid her gaze. “He reaches for the galaxies. Just like you did.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The chuckle from the bulk of his father to Lotor’s left, and Lotor looks up to him. He too stands close to the glass. Sharp, dangerous eyes drink in his domain.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Fret not, Starchild,” Zarkon says, and Lotor can feel the deep hum of it within his own chest. “One day, you will have them all.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>—Remorse is a bitter sensation as Lotor opens his eyes again to the expanse of glass.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Allura.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Her reflection in the glass shifts—with unease? Lotor wonders. Or merely with surprise? On exhausting evenings such as this one, he cannot as much as bring himself to hope for the latter. To give her fear would merely affirm that which he already understands: the presence of his father within him. The beastiality borne by addiction to the luminous drug of Quintessence. Whatever raw monster within his ribcage he’s nurtured and fed on his own. Any one of them alone, a cause for her to flee.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Allura's hand coils into his all the same. A brave little girl. Lotor smirks.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I thought you’d be up here.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Become predictable in my old age, have I?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Hardly.” Allura laughs a gentle sound. It’s quietly that she approaches Lotor, a hand about his waist, her temple pressing decisively into his shoulder. “Tell you the truth, when you’re up here with that look, I would hazard you’re the least legible—I never know if you’ll come back to bed or jet off to the far reaches of the universe.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Lotor grimaces, but says nothing further; loathe as he is to have come to terms with the fact, his Queen is very rarely incorrect on such matters. Not when he has always felt every part the desperate, caged predator; when the greatest freedom he had known were the deca-phoebes Lotor had spent a wanted criminal.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I am suffering from aches,” he tells her.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The caress of her fingers on his arm. “From the Field?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Not quite, I think."</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I see.” He spins her along in conversation, and it’s painstakingly at times that she follows along his gentle threads. But follow along she does. She plucks up the end with grace. She spools his thoughts around her fingers, expertly, as he continues. “And what pray tell, my Lord, are you referencing?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Lotor affords her a stinted glance.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“When I was researching old Altea—“</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“This again.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes, <em>this</em> again—for we did not all have the fortune of growing up within the culture we found so beloved, my dear. When I was researching old Altea, I stumbled across a story—no, a theory—“</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Which was it?” And she is grinning now, a kindness swirling in her blue eyes that Lotor has long since come to recognize.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She wants his affections, Lotor thinks with a pang, and how long has it been since he's afforded her the pleasure of those? When every night he limps into bed more exhausted than the night prior, when he cannot summon the strength to indulge in the pleasures between her thighs.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>His fingers slide from the window of stars. Instead, Lotor’s fingers close on her little waist. He catches a flush of purple upon her cheeks, and smirks down towards her. He has accomplished one particular goal.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“It was a theory. That as Alteans age, rather than weather and grow, they make layers,” Lotor explains to her, tongue giving each word the enunciation such an important story needs. “And due to this circumstance, inside a full grown Altean—or even the most venerable elder—there is a child within. That there are times the layers peel away and the child is there again. Merely—stepping free of its shell.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I do recall that, come to think of it.” She looks contemplative, a lock of curls between one lithe finger as she coils it around and around. “A tale our matrons told the children to give them confidence in aging, perhaps. I heard it too, as a child.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“All those deca-phoebes ago.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Watch it.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She swats him, although it’s gentle enough, and Lotor’s smile is genuine. The first authentic smile that’s graced his mouth in much too long.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He recalls now why he does not give in to her own fears—why he does not board a one-man vessel and rocket away to the next galaxy over. Why the toil and turbulence of an Emperor, he has still borne, since the day he was fished from that wreckage of a ship, addled and broken and still miraculously alive. He finds purpose written in the youth of her beauty; hope spun about each coil of hair. This love, this love has kept him alive. Perhaps he’ll live to repay it one day.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>And Lotor touches her with reverence—and how positively obscene to feel such a way towards another of flesh and bone, when he has been a man of science for his considerable life, when he has known God not to exist for the way he has torn apart the heavens to be certain. His clawed fingers trace the exhaustive length of her jaw. They linger on her neck.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I suppose I found myself wistful.” He laughs; mirthless air passes by his lips. And even that hurts him. His damned teeth ache. “That such a thing might happen to me. That one day, I step from this body. Young again. <em>Renewed</em>."</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh, Lotor.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She stretches upon her toes to kiss him, and Lotor’s eyes flutter shut. For that fleeting moment, he might be convinced he is as they were the first time they had shared such an innocent touch. When his body did as he pleased, when and precisely how he wanted. A fruitless desire. Too little, too late.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He will bear the burden of his fatal mistakes for the remainder of his quintants.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>But for now, Lotor will leave it be; lose the aches of Quintessence and age behind and allow his Queen to drag him back into bed. For now, the stars will merely fill his dreams. Perhaps that’s alright.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm on <a href="https://www.twitter.com/iliawrites">Twitter!</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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